


Earl Grey

by okapi



Series: Twelve Cups of Tea [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Divorce, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Sherlock, Fem!mycroft, Femslash, Genderswap, Haircuts, Hurt/Comfort, Male!Anthea, Past Abuse, Scars, Self-Harm, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 17:40:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1826656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Or how Mycroft and John became lovers and how Sherlock came to cut Mycroft's hair</i> </p>
<p>In different ways, Sherlock and John aid Mycroft in her post-divorce transition. Hurt/comfort femslash in a genderswapped AU. Featuring Earl Grey tea with lemon.</p>
<p>Please heed the tags for potential triggers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Earl Grey

**Author's Note:**

> [Earl Grey tea](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Earl_grey_tea) immediately makes me think of Mycroft.
> 
> This story comes after [Crack in the Ice](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1090654/chapters/2195152) and before [Divested](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1122324). Mycroft’s haircut routine is mentioned in [Chapter 4](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1685879/chapters/3616085) of [Lipstick Stamps](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1685879/chapters/3584180). You don’t have to have read any of these to understand this fic, but if you _like_ this fic, you may like those as well. There are some incongruities because Mycroft has evolved over the course of my stories.
> 
> I started out with Mycroft as an older version of Sherlock, but quickly decided that she should look as much like the BBC Mycroft as possible while keeping her female gender. Makes for a more interesting contrast and a clearer image in my head when I’m writing.

John strode along the pavement, ignoring the pain in her foot.

Doctor Watson: What kind of pain is it? _Shooting? stabbing? aching?_

Patient Watson: It is a pain consistent with kicking the frame of a bedroom door, that is, a throb, a frustrating throb, _infuriating_ , really, much like the woman on the other side of the door.

John stopped.

A dark car also stopped.

“Timing,” sighed John as she opened the car door. She relaxed against the leather seat and let her mind wander.

 

**_Two weeks earlier…_ **

The slice of lemon dropped. Tea splashed over the side of the cup and dripped onto the saucer.

“ _Sex surrogate?!_ ”

The two women stared at each other. A grandfather clock ticked.

“Dr. Watson, you might want to put that cup back in your saucer now.”

Cup, spoon, and saucer clattered together on the edge of the desk.

“May I pace?” asked John.

“Be my guest.”

John rose. After two passes from one bookcased wall to the other, she spoke.

“I am not _unsympathetic_ to your situation, Mycroft. Divorce is an upheaval, but also an opportunity for personal discovery, exploration, etcetera. I _understand_ that. I _support_ that. There’s absolutely no reason—career-wise, personally, even from a societal standpoint in this day and age—that you bow to any convention needlessly, but how does sex with me solve anything?!”

“Dr. Watson, I went from being a _blushing_ bride to a _faithful_ wife…”

John ran a hand through her hair and plopped back down in the chair. She grabbed the cup and slurped.

“Mycroft, there are actual sex surrogates." The cup clanked in the saucer. “People who are trained to do this sort of thing. Or even, you know, a commercial sex worker, who could be hired to do _anything_.”

“Enlisting the services of any kind of medical professional or counselor creates a record. Records are liabilities. The kind of liabilities I exploit on a regular basis in my _line of work_. A prostitute, of course, would be having sex for money.”

John gave a weak laugh. She put her elbows on her knees and laced her fingers behind her head. She looked down at the carpet between her feet.

“I can’t be bought.”

“Not with money. Everyone has a price.”

John looked up.

Mycroft smiled. She laid her cup in the saucer beside the spoon and untouched slice of lemon and silently placed them on the desk. “There are personal—in addition to professional—reasons for discretion, and, frankly, trust.” She paused. “I have… _scars_.”

“Don’t we all?” said John to the leather-bound tomes that lined the wall.

“Not all of them are self-inflicted.”

The two women locked eyes.

“All the more reason to get a _professional_. I am not _trained_ …”

“Did you think that I only researched your _professional_ career when you began your association with my sister? ‘Three Continents’ is an underestimate.”

“Being a whore doesn’t make you a sex therapist.”

“You are not a whore.”

“No, I’m not,” admitted John. “You could hire a whore. An _actual_ prostitute to do what you want.”

“ _I don’t know what I want! That is the bloody problem!_ ” Mycroft shook. John sensed that her coils of dark braided hair were at the point of unravelling.

“On the other hand,” John said, considering, “Being inexperienced isn’t a dysfunction _per se_ …”

“At my age?” countered Mycroft.

John shrugged. “You could get a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Or one of both. Whatever you wanted. It’s all _fine_.”

Mycroft shot her a look. John laughed. “Not really your area?” she asked, chuckling. “Consider yourself married to your work? Sorry, sorry.” John stood up and paced anew.

“If nothing else, I would like to understand the full extent of my limitations, and, not to put too crude a point on it, only so much can be gleaned through _solo exploration_.”

John stared up at the ceiling and then turned. “Alright, for the sake of argument, let’s say you and I have _therapeutic_ sex. It had better be stupendous because it will be the last thing I do on this earth. Sherlock. Will. Murder. Me.”

Mycroft relaxed into the armchair behind the desk. “You are comparatively new to my sister’s dark moods. Regrettably, I have a lifetime of experience. Timing will be a chief part of it, but there are other _dynamics_ at play. I give you my word that no harm will come to you and that your association with Sherlock will not suffer.”

“Presumptuous of you.”

Mycroft shrugged. “Part of my charm. And my source of employment. _Presuming_.”

John traced her finger along book spines.

Mycroft continued, her voice wavering slightly. “Our recent…[ _encounter_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1090654/chapters/2233847)...seemed…not unpleasant.”

“No,” said John, “Not unpleasant.” She turned to catch Mycroft turning a not-uncharming shade of pink. “Jesus Christ,” she whispered, “I’m actually considering this.” Then, she schooled her voice into a cool, business-like tone, “What’s in it for me?”

“I could give you information about Sherlock, her past, facts that may enlighten you and facilitate your mutual domestic tranquillity…”

“I don’t want to know anything about Sherlock that Sherlock doesn’t want to tell me herself.”

“Extraordinary,” breathed Mycroft after a few moments. John ignored her.

“But I reserve the right to call in a favour or two on her behalf. No questions asked.”

“Reasonable.”

“And there’ll be rules of engagement.”

“Naturally.”

“And a sunset clause. A quick one.”

Mycroft nodded.

“Alright,” said John. She picked up her cup and swallowed the tepid liquid with a grimace. She spit the lemon wedge into the saucer and dropped the whole ensemble on the tea tray.

Mycroft’s mild disgust evaporated when John stuck out her hand.

“Deal?”

Mycroft stood up, smoothing her navy blue suit jacket and skirt. She met John’s hand with her own.

“Deal.”

 

 

“And here we are,” said John as the car stopped.

John climbed the steps to the rear entrance of Mycroft’s residence; her foot still ached.

The door opened.

John’s surprise at Mycroft answering her own door was quickly overshadowed by the sight of the women before her.

_This_ was not the woman who had shaken hands with John two weeks ago.

_This_ , to a myopic glance, was not a woman at all.

Mycroft’s hair was short. She wore a dark, pinstriped suit: jacket, trousers, and waistcoat. Expensive. Tailored. _Masculine_. White shirt. Red tie. Pocket watch.

John’s eyebrows rose.

“Dr. Watson, do come in.”

“Nice haircut.”

  

**_Two days earlier…_ **

Between the second and the third and final chime of the grandfather clock, there was a knock at the study door.

Mycroft placed the cup in the saucer.

Knocking was new, a development that Mycroft attributed to her sister’s association with Dr. Watson. The ritual about to transpire, however, was not new; it was almost as old as the two sisters themselves. It was the third Thursday of the month.

“Come in.”

Sherlock appeared, and the sisters eyed each other warily.

Mycroft sat down in a chair in the middle of the room.

Sherlock rolled up her shirtsleeves. With practiced movements, she took a drape from a large container in the corner of the room, unfurled it around Mycroft, and secured it at the nape of her neck.

The envelope on the desk—legal sized, legal shaped, legal firm embossed—did not escape Sherlock’s notice. Nor was it meant to.

Sherlock drug the container closer to Mycroft’s chair. Soon, the _clink-clink_ of hairpins in a glass cup could be heard. Sherlock brushed Mycroft’s long hair until it shone.

“Sherlock, it’s time to be who I am.”

Sherlock moved around to face her sister.

“What do you want, Mycroft?”

“The way it was…in the beginning.”

The two sisters smiled at each other as they had not done for decades.

Sherlock rifled through the container until she pulled out a pair of electric clippers. She held them up triumphantly. “This,” she said, “is going to be fun!”

Mycroft laughed. Then, she closed her eyes and remembered.

 

 

Sherlock was an adventurous child, always exploring the nooks and crannies of their childhood home and the surrounding grounds. No one knew that she had discovered an antique barber set in the attic until Mycroft woke up one morning to find herself shorn like a sheep, locks of hair decorating her pillow and the floor under her bed. There were shrieks and squeals and running feet and cries and punishment.

The following night, Mycroft woke and crept silently to the toilet. She looked in the mirror, turning her head. She touched the stubbly hair at the nape of her neck. A smile broke across her lips. Then, she caught sight of Sherlock, behind her, staring.

“I thought, if you were a boy, maybe…”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft turned, but Sherlock had disappeared.

Then, Christmas night came. Mycroft counted the cracks in the ceiling above her bed. A whisper broke her reverie.

“Do you want a haircut?”

“Just a trim.”

And so it started, by mutual unspoken agreement, the third Thursday of the month, Sherlock cut Mycroft’s hair. As they got older, the haircut became a theatre of intellectual sparring. The two would play a kind of oral crossword puzzle with obscure clues and even more obscure answers. Sometimes, one would produce an object and test the other’s deductive prowess. The first Thursday that Sherlock was too high to appear, both wept. Mycroft let her hair grow long and took to braiding and coiling it in soft rolls. Years passed, but finally one Thursday, Sherlock reappeared. By then, Mycroft’s elation was buried deep under layers of carefully cultivated ice. But the ritual resumed. When one was travelling, she alerted the other. But more often than not, the third Thursday of the month found them in this very position.

 

 

Sherlock handed Mycroft a mirror and stood back, surveying her work. History repeated itself. Mycroft looked in a mirror, fingered the hair at the nape of her neck, smiled, and caught her sister’s reflected gaze. Sherlock’s smile faded, and she disappeared with a quiet _click_ of the study door.

 

 

“I assume there’ll be a moratorium on kissing on the mouth,” said Mycroft. They were seated on the edge of bed, John straddling Mycroft’s lap.

“Not your thing?” Mycroft had removed her suit jacket; John had removed her shoes. Otherwise, the two women were still clothed.

“I’m given to understand that it represents an emotional intimacy that…”

John leaned in to nuzzle at Mycroft’s neck. “I’m not a bull at stand, you know? The only way this is going to work Mycroft is if you let me in. At some point. Do you like it? Kissing?” John felt Mycroft’s nod.

“Me, too. Let’s kiss all afternoon.” John pressed her lips to Mycroft’s smile.

So, they kissed. Closed-mouthed. Open-mouthed. Slotting heads this way and that way. Without hurry. Without urgency. Or anticipation of what might or might not be coming next. They kissed as if kissing were the only entrée on the menu, their mutually-agreed-upon-raison d'être. There were kisses planted to the corners of smiles. Nibbles to bottom lips. Swipes of top lips. Tongues exploring and teasing. Hot, wanton kisses that lingered. Short, sweet kisses like daisy-chain promises. Fingers woven in hair. Gentle caresses to brows and cheeks. They fell together on the bed side-by-side. John’s hand was curled around Mycroft’s jaw.

“Nice.” John pressed her lips to Mycroft’s.

Mycroft rolled toward John and kissed her neck. “Captain Watson…”

“Mycroft.” John pushed her away. “First things first, you need to decide something.”

Mycroft looked puzzled.

“Do you have a medical kink or a military kink?”

Mycroft laughed, and then she frowned and studied the wall. “Neither, I think.”

“Then you’re going to have to figure out a way to call me John.”

“John. It seems…”

“Intimate?”

“Yes.”

“Name of the game, my friend.” John covered Mycroft’s mouth with her own. In the moment, John had the fleeting thought that she had startled her companion, though her movement was hardly violent or sudden. Upon later reflection, it dawned on John that Mycroft Holmes had probably not been called someone’s friend for a very long time, and that perhaps that was the source of her disquietude. Regardless, it soon passed and the wet slide of mouths against each other and bodies shifting slightly atop bedcovers were the only sounds in the room. Mycroft pulled away and John rolled on her back, one hand behind her head.

“Not a bad way to spend an afternoon.”

“More?”

“By all means.” John rolled up onto one elbow and reached for her.

“But…” Mycroft looked down.

“Scars?”

“Yes.”

John leaned up and kissed Mycroft. Then, she whispered with a grin, “You show me yours; I’ll show you mine.”

“Deal.”

 

 

They stared at each other, both kneeling on opposite sides of the bed like opponents in a wrestling match. Mycroft loosened and removed her tie and unbuttoned the cuffs on her shirt.

“Ready?” asked John.

Mycroft nodded. She began unbuttoning her shirt. John pulled her jumper and vest together over her head and threw them aside. She turned her left shoulder toward Mycroft. Mycroft slipped off her shirt and let it fall to the floor behind her.

“Yours is definitely uglier,” said Mycroft.

“But you’ve got more.”

Straight and jagged lines decorated Mycroft’s torso and upper arms. Most were thin, faded, and white, but a pair of short pink ones dotted one arm. Most noticeable, however, was a dry river bed of scarred skin that ran from her left side, disappeared beneath her bra, and stopped at the ridge of her left shoulder.

John crawled slowly across the bed. She stopped to pull off her bra. When she reached Mycroft, she rose up slowly. Mycroft bent her head to kiss John’s open mouth. She reached behind her back and undid her bra. Mycroft slipped it off her arms and threw it to the floor. The wide scar ran over Mycroft’s left breast; her nipple had been replaced by hard, mangled flesh. John wrapped her arms around Mycroft’s neck; Mycroft curled hers around John’s waist.

“Just ignore it. Them.”

“Are you going to ignore mine?” It was a rhetorical question because John recognized the look on Mycroft’s face as the woman stared at her shoulder. She’d seen it on Sherlock, the first morning she’d made tea at the Baker Street flat.

“You got yours being a war hero.”

“These…are definitely battlefield scars, Mycroft.” John broke their embrace to trail her fingertips lightly along Mycroft’s arms. “And you don’t miss this war. You’re haunted by it.” They locked eyes. “I have no intention of ignoring them or dismissing them. Ever.”

“They don’t define me.”

“No, they don’t. But they are part of you. And you can’t say they don’t matter. Or I wouldn’t be here in the first place.” John pressed her lips to the edge of the scar on Mycroft’s left shoulder. “Let me know them.”

They breathed together in silence for some time. Finally, Mycroft nodded.

Mycroft stretched out in the middle of the bed John set about slowly, methodically, painstakingly, kissing and licking and tracing with her fingers every single visible mark on Mycroft’s body. When she reached Mycroft’s belt, she moved back up her body. Mycroft kissed her softly. John said, “They are monuments to pain—and survival. Just like mine.” Mycroft’s eyes glistened. She cleared her throat and sat up. John moved off her and came around behind her. She rested her head on Mycroft’s right shoulder and wound her arms around her, cupping her breasts.

“Don’t,” said Mycroft. John didn’t move her hands.

“Mm?”

“Don’t touch…” Mycroft took John’s hand and placed them at her waist. John made to move her hands back, saying, “What?”

Mycroft whipped around, snarling, “Don’t touch…!”

She stopped when she saw John’s smile.

“What don’t you want me to touch, Mycroft?” John’s eyes twinkled.

Mycroft barked a surprised laugh. Then, with every word, she advanced, and John retreated across the bed. “I. Said. Don’t. Touch. My. _Breasts_.”

“Oh,” said John. She was flat on her back and Mycroft was looming over her, with her arms pinned beside her head. “You don’t want me to touch your _breasts_. Oh, okay. Hey, maybe a little bit?”

“No.”

“Just a teensy bit?”

“No.”

“How ‘bout the one that’s still got a nipple?” John wiggled her eyebrows.

Mycroft gave an amused snort. “No!”

“Alright.” John giggled. “Guess that’s one thing you know you don’t like. It’s a start.”

“Doctor Watson, you are not the most luminous of people.”

“Mm-hmm. But as a conductor of light?”

“Unbeatable.”

Mycroft collapsed on top of her and kissed her soundly, framing John’s head with her forearms. “Doctor Watson.” John raised her eyebrow and huffed, Holmesian-style. “John,” Mycroft corrected. Her voice fell to a hushed whisper. “Do come in.”

John smirked and said, “I thought you’d _never_ ask.” While she quickly pushed her jeans, pants, and socks off, Mycroft removed the rest of her clothing. John opened her legs, and Mycroft sank against her body.

“Oh, _God_ ,” moaned John at the skin-on-skin contact. “Hello, hello, _hello_.” Mycroft ground her hips into John’s and buried her face in the crook of John’s neck. John locked her arms and legs around Mycroft. She pushed one hand up Mycroft’s neck into her hair.

“John!”

“Feel like coming?”

“Yes.”

“Come on, then.”

Mycroft shifted to centre herself over John’s hipbone, and then she crushed John into the bed. She gave a soft grunt and stilled. She rolled onto her back and pulled John with her.

They kissed.

“It’s a very good start,” said Mycroft.

 

 

Mycroft was buttoning her shirt as John looked under the bed for her sock.

“Would you care for tea?”

“Umm…”

“Staff’s off the week. I’ll make it myself.”

“A Holmes woman making _me_ tea? _Yes._ ”

 

 

John propped her feet up on the empty kitchen chair and squeezed the lemon slice in her cup. They drank in silence. Finally, John said, “So what do they say at the office about your metamorphosis?”

“I haven’t sprung it on them yet. I suspect fear and politeness will quash most of the commentary.”

“You haven’t told anyone?”

“Well, Anthea, of course. He helped me with the wardrobe.”

John giggled.

“Speaking of which,” Mycroft continued. “One last request.”

 

 

 

“Where are we?”

“Incinerator. Lift that up.”

John pushed, and the heavy metal door clanged loudly.

“Please tell me we aren’t disposing of your ex.”

Mycroft huffed. “Nothing so prosaic.”

“So, what’s in the bags?”

Mycroft untied the bag and opened it.

John reached in. “Skirt,” she said, holding up the garment. She rummaged in the bag. “Skirt, skirt, skirt. You getting rid of all your skirts.” She opened the other bags. “And high-heeled shoes. And knickers. Wow. Okay. I get it. Are you sure you don’t want to donate this stuff? I mean there’s probably tens of thousands of pounds’ worth of clothes here.”

Mycroft glared at her.

“Alright, alright. Symbolism. Got it. Doubt anybody wants to walk around in your knickers anyway.”

“Quite.”

They shoved the bags into the incinerator.

“Good-bye, Old Mycroft,” said John as she slammed the door shut. “Feel lighter?”

“Immensely. Baker Street?”

“Yes, please.”

 

 

As the car slowed, Mycroft said, “Sherlock will emerge in…twelve to eighteen hours…as if nothing has happened…as soon as the next case comes along.”

“And she’s okay?”

Mycroft shrugged. “As well as she ever is.”

“Alright. I’ll just wait it out. Good-bye, Mycroft.”

“Good-bye, Dr. Watson. Until next time?”

John nodded. When she unlocked the flat door, she realized that she had forgotten all about her foot. Upon returning home, however, the infuriating throb re-emerged with a vengeance.

“Bloody Holmes women!” swore John as she limped up the stairs.

 

**_Three days later…_ **

“Feeling better?” asked Sherlock.

“Mmm. You realise we’ve hardly stopped for breath since this thing started? Christ, I’m starving.” John shovelled eggs and potatoes in her mouth.

When half of John’s plate was clean, Sherlock said, “You take your Earl Grey with lemon.”

John chewed and swallowed. “It’s seven o’clock in the bloody morning, Sherlock. I’m not having Earl Grey. I’m not having tea period. I’m having coffee because I suspect that I’m going to be awake for some time—perhaps days—to come and need the extra caffeine. _This_ is not pleasure.” She pointed to the plate and mug. “This is fuel.”

“Some years back, there was [a case ](http://www.docente.unicas.it/useruploads/000811/files/earl_grey_tea_intoxication.pdf)of an Austrian man who developed muscle cramps, twitching, numbness, and blurred vision as a result of excessive Earl Grey consumption.”

“Really? They determined it was the Earl Grey?”

“Yes. He had switched from his regular black tea to Earl Grey for health reasons. The symptoms came from bergapten, found in bergamot oil, which is a potassium channel blocker.”

“Huh. Well, that _would_ mess with involuntary muscle movement. How much Earl Grey are we talking about?”

“Four litres a day.”

“ _Holy Fuck!_ ”

“Bergamot oil has a pleasant, refreshing scent—according to most. One could grow accustomed to it, I suppose. Indeed, perhaps come to prefer it.” Sherlock fiddled with a fork. “Over time, one’s normal, everyday brew is bound to become _boring_.” She moved onto a knife, then a saltshaker, casting quick glances in John’s direction.

John put a hand over Sherlock’s and leaned across the table. The din of the café quieted. John whispered, “Sherlock, Earl Grey does not _satisfy_ me.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow.

John shook her head.

“You drink it to be… _polite_?” asked Sherlock, incredulously.

John shrugged. “I drink it to be _helpful_. On rare occasion. With a lot of lemon.”

Sherlock rolled her eyes.

“But to be sure, Sherlock, I want my regular cup of strong, black tea, every morning, for the rest of my natural life. I will never _, never_ grow bored of it. As long as it doesn’t grow bored of me.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock smiled and shook her head slowly.

“Never.”

John leaned back and resumed eating. “So, in the end, what happened to him? The Earl Grey man.”

“He went back to drinking two litres of plain black tea a day, and his symptoms resolved.”

“See? Smart man.”

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“After the case is solved…”

“Yes?”

“You’ll be drinking an obscene quantity of strong black morning tea. There’ll be no time or energy for afternoon tea. At all.”

John laughed. “Here’s hoping the next clue arrives soon.” She raised her mug with a smile.

_Beep!_

**Author's Note:**

> I am celebrating my six-month anniversary of being a fanfic writer and just want to give a heart-felt thank you for reading! And to everyone who’s read any of my stories or dropped a comment or a kudo!
> 
> Twenty five cups of Earl Grey with half a dozen lemons were consumed in the production of this fic; I did not, however, reach the point of [Earl Grey intoxication](http://www.docente.unicas.it/useruploads/000811/files/earl_grey_tea_intoxication.pdf). 
> 
> A long time ago, a friend suggested that I consider sexual surrogacy as a career. An odd compliment, to be sure, and this story is my musing on that notion. Not something I’m going to pursue, but maybe somehow, somewhere I’ve helped someone get off with my little fantasies. And that thought makes me very happy. 
> 
> Once again, thanks for reading! More tea to come.


End file.
